


A Night Without Moon or Stars

by spacehopper



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7710022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running had never been an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night Without Moon or Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



Fenris no longer knew how long he’d been chasing his quarry. The forest had blurred together, an endless maze of stark skeletal trees and blinding white snow blown on a bitter wind. He rubbed his hands together, trying to chafe some warmth back into them. Though he was loathe to agree with the Tevinter mage on anything, the cold in the south was often as unbearable as he said. The wind calmed for a moment, and—there.

He sprinted towards the sound of a branch cracking underfoot, spying a dark form in a clearing, framed by dark branches. The man, if it truly was a man, stood motionless, as if waiting for Fenris. He slowed, unsheathing his sword as he approached. If the man was as human as he had first seemed, then the darkness favored Fenris’s superior eyesight. And yet, though there was no reason beyond his darkest dears to suspect otherwise, Fenris wondered. Was he the hunter, or the hunted? But it didn’t truly matter. Either way, he would have to fight.

Running had never been an option.  

With only the sound of his footfalls on the snow, he leapt at the man, sword raised high in hopes of surprising him and knocking him to his knees, giving Fenris an early, critical advantage. But just as his sword should have connected with flesh, the man sidestepped with inhuman speed. He stood at ease across the clearing, sword dangling from his hand. He had lost the shield he’d held before somewhere in the woods. Perhaps he’d considered the weight a burden, if speed was his strategy. Fenris readied himself to strike, and the man laughed, letting his sword drop from his hand. His helmet had been discarded as well, and as Fenris met his eyes, he knew.

_In blackest envy were the demons born._

The words sprung unbidden to his mind as he rushed towards the man, letting the lyrium flare. He would need every advantage in this fight. An opponent, even a highly skilled one, was never so dangerous as a powerful demon. For that was what this man must be, dodging Fenris’s every blow while never taking its eyes off him, never letting the cruel grin falter. It was toying with him. Fenris growled in frustration. Toying with him, and there was nothing he could do. Yet he had fought opponents greater than this before.

 _Not alone,_ whispered a voice that sounded like the demon, but also like Hadriana, like Danarius. But they were dead.

And Fenris was alone.

He let the magic explode from his skin, a spiritual energy spreading out around him in a flash of light, but the demon didn’t even flinch. He found himself waiting for the distraction that never came, someone else to draw the demon’s attention and give him a chance to strike. He was no longer used to fighting alone, too many years with Hawke at his side, along with the wild variety of his companions. Too long since with he had come to the Inquisition as well, with their soldiers and their spies, their heroes and their mercenaries. But Fenris had been alone for years, to win what he had. He would not lose it now. Not lose it here, deep in the Ferelden wilderness.

He slowed the pace of his assault, waiting to let the demon make a move. Even demons had cracks in their armor, fault lines waiting to be exploited. The demon moved left, right, left again, and Fenris struck. This time his sword connected with the demon’s arm.

Then passed through empty air.

“You always had too much spirit,” it whispered into Fenris’s ear as it slid away.

He turned to strike, every inch of him glowing like a beacon. But again the demon evaded him, and closed its hand like a vise around his arm. No matter how he strained, Fenris could not break its grip. He passed the sword to his left hand. It was awkward and unwieldly, but if the only way to break the demon’s grip was to remove its arm, then that was what he must attempt. But before he could even begin the swing, the sword was yanked from his hand and thrown across the clearing. He struggled to make out its form in the dark, but before he could find where it had landed, he was dragged further into the demon’s grip.

“I’ve missed you, little wolf,” it said, and every line of Fenris’s body lit with pain. It flared through the markings, as excruciating as it had been when they were first applied. Had the demon not been holding him, he would have collapsed. He could feel his conscious fading, could feel the demon’s grip tightening on his body and his mind. He tried to struggle, but it was too much. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he saw a garden and a girl with bright red hair smiling, the snow covered forest blurring before his eyes. The pain was fading, and he could feel the warmth of the Tevinter sun on his face. The girl beckoned to him, waiting a moment, before running towards the door of the grand manor behind her. Fenris took a step to follow her, then another.

“No,” he said, trying to twist out of the demon’s grasp. The pain came back, a terrible flood of sensation. But he was no stranger to pain. He let the markings flare again, and felt his arms slip from the demon’s grasp. He stumbled away, gasping, cold sweat dripping into his eyes. The pain stopped.

“Oh, Fenris.” The demon shifted before Fenris’s eyes, no longer simply using Danarius’s voice, but his face. “I didn’t want to have to make this difficult, but you know that disobedient slaves must be punished.”

Fenris backed away further, lurching into a tree and bracing himself against it. His breath was coming in white clouds, but he could no longer feel the cold. He met the demon’s eyes, two points of unnatural green.

“I am not a slave.”

He lunged at the demon, a vain effort he knew, as weak as he was, but if he would die, then he would die fighting, not lost to some impossible fantasy. The moon came out from behind the dark clouds, and he stopped a glint of silver in the light. He dove for the sword, the same one dropped by the demon earlier, even as the pain flared again, wrapping his fingers around the grip and turning to face his adversary.

“It tastes like ashes.”

Fenris froze.

The demon stood before him, black armor and hair as white as the snow surrounding them. He took one breath, then another. The demon walked towards him, stooping down to pick up his sword. It lifted a hand, glowing bright with lyrium. Placed it against, his chest, palm flat against the breastplate. Their eyes locked.

“Did you truly get everything you desired?” it said. It knew. Somehow, it knew. Fenris had to move, had to do something, had to fight. But how could he fight this?

Then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, a figure rushing towards them. The demon was thrown to the ground and moonlight caught on a templar shield. The demon had been so focused on Fenris that it had not noticed they were no longer alone. Cullen slashed at its arm, and the blow connected, causing Fenris’s sword to drop from its grasp. He swallowed his revulsion, watching as a form near identical to his own let out a scream of pain in his voice. His fingers curled in the snow, talons carving deep lines into the frozen ground. This ended now.

He dove for the sword, spring to his feet and swinging at the demon. With two opponents, it had become confused, not able to dodge them both at once. Fenris slashed at it, cutting the armor on its back, into the flesh beneath. Cullen pressed the advantage, his own sword plunging deep into the meat of its leg. With a snarl of rage, the demon threw Cullen off and turned to Fenris.

“I will have you,” it hissed. It grabbed for him again, too fast to dodge. The pain flared, worse than before.

“You won’t,” Fenris said. He let himself go limp, and the demon smiled in triumph. But it had forgotten.

He was no longer alone.

The sword pierced the center of the demon’s chest and it let out a piercing scream. Fenris fell to his knees, every inch of his body still swimming with pain, no longer able to suppress it. He watched as the demon’s form shifted from his own to something monstrous, twisted, before crumpling to the ground, to be slowly covered with the falling snow.

A hand appeared in front of his face. He looked up to see Cullen standing over him.

“We need to find shelter. I saw an abandoned shack only a short walk from here.”

Fenris took his hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He swayed, almost falling again. Cullen slipped an arm around his waist. Fenris tensed at the contact, before pushing aside his instinctive reaction. Cullen was trying to help him, and he was not stubborn enough to deny this small gesture, in the wake of what Cullen had done.

“Are you able to walk?” Direct and to the point, as Cullen was in all things. He understood there was no need to ask whether Fenris was okay. The answer was clear.

“I can walk,” Fenris said. Cullen reluctantly pulled away, and Fenris took a shaky step forward, then another. He had almost bad it to the edge of the clearing when he fell to his knees, hands braced against his snow.

Cullen was giving him a doubtful look, and Fenris swallowed his pride. “I would appreciate your aid. This fight has sapped me more than I had realized.” Cullen didn’t comment on it, only knelt down beside him to put an arm under Fenris’s shoulders, pulling him to his feet.

The stumbled through the dark, and as the snow got thicker, Fenris hoped Cullen’s memory was right. There was no way they would make it back to the soldiers they’d journeyed with to Therinfal Redoubt. It had seemed a trivial task at the time, clearing the abandon fortress of anyone or anything that remained, and perhaps had Fenris not fallen for what he could now see was a trap, it would have remained as such.

“How did you find me?” The words came out raspy, and Fenris hated how weak they sounded.

“I saw you run off after that thing. As soon as I was able, I followed.”

Fenris chuckled, surprising himself. “The great strategist ran off into the dark to follow the reckless loner, without even telling his soldiers?”

“I, uh.” Cullen turned his head away as much as he was able, give their positions. He swallowed. “It was an unusually impulsive decision. I hope they don’t try looking for us in this storm.” He stared off in a direction that may or may not be the one they’d come from. “I should have at least told one of them, it’s what I’d expect if they were in my place.”

Fenris sighed. “It was a joke. Despite what the dwarf might think, I can tell them.”

“Oh, right, of course.” Fenris glanced to see Cullen staring determinedly ahead, cheeks red from the exertion, the cold, or something else entirely.

“I am glad you came.” The words were halting, but he knew they needed to be said. “After Kirkwall, I was alone again, for a time. I would not care to repeat it.”

“You won’t have to.” Cullen’s words were more vehement than Fenris would have expected, but like all things with Cullen, they rang true. He was looking at Fenris again, and smiling. Something inside Fenris twisted. He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but then Cullen stopped.

“We’re here.”

A rather ramshackle building stood before them, nestled against the side of a cliff. It looked like it had been abandoned for years, but despite that it seemed largely intact. The wind picked up again, and Fenris couldn’t suppress a shiver. The adrenaline from the fight was wearing off, and he was not dressed for this cold. Cullen’s tightened his grip around Fenris, pulling him closer, and Fenris felt warmer than he should have, pressed against steel and wool coated in snow.

“Let’s get you inside. I don’t know why you insist on dressing like that, you’re worse than Dorian.” Fenris tensed involuntarily at the mention, and Cullen darted a nervous glance his way as they moved towards the shack. “I mean, well, your armor has a number of gaps, and your feet—“

Fenris shook his head, somehow dredging up a smile. “I’m not sure a mane would suit me.”

“A mane?” Cullen pushed the door in. It gave easily, the latch long since broken. “Oh. It’s very warm,” he said defensively.

“And it suits you wonderfully,” Fenris replied. Cullen colored, and this time Fenris was sure it was not the cold. He shut the door as firmly as he could behind him, though Fenris doubted it would hold if this storm continued.

“The spikes, they do suit you as well,” Cullen said, stumbling over the words. Fenris was suddenly very aware of their position, of Cullen’s arm encircling him, just short of an embrace.

“It has been said I have a rather prickly personality,” Fenris said.

“That’s not what I meant. You’re very…“ He hesitated. “Fierce.”

“Like a wolf,” Fenris said.

“That’s what your name means, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He paused before continuing. “Danarius gave me the name. His little wolf.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but from Cullen’s reaction, he had not entirely succeeded.

“I didn’t realize.” Fenris felt Cullen tense against him. “I’m sorry.”

Fenris shook his head. “I choose to keep the name. Wolves are not dogs. They cannot be chained.”

“Nor can you,” Cullen said. He was smiling again, and Fenris found he liked it. Cullen did not smile enough. He was a good man, better than most Fenris had known. He rested a hand on Cullen’s arm, and Cullen did not pull away. Fenris leaned in closer, and Cullen still did not pull away.

“Oh, Maker’s breath,” Cullen said, twisting his head towards the door. As Fenris had expected, it had opened, snow blowing in. Cullen helped Fenris over to a bed in the corner, the mattress still mostly intact with a few moth eaten blankets spread upon it. Once he seemed sure Fenris would not keel over without him, he rushed to the door, closing it again and shifting a few broken crates in front of it to hold it against the wind.

“You should sleep,” Cullen said. He remained on the other side of the room, a hand braced against the door, though whether to steady it or himself, Fenris couldn’t say. He struggled for the words he wanted to say.

“Yes,” he said instead, and cursed himself.

Cullen was rummaging through the chests stacked in a corner, pulling out a few more worn but warm looking blankets. “You can take the bed. I’ll be fine on the floor for the night.” He began to remove his armor, arranging it carefully on the floor. Fenris realized as he watched that he had not once seen Cullen without it. He knew he should turn away, should remove his own armor and rest. And yet he found he could not. Cullen was not a small man, nor a hulking brute, but muscular, as any man who had been a templar as long as he should be. The loose shirt beneath his armor clung to his skin, still damp with the sweat of battle. As he set the last piece down, he lifted his head to Fenris.

Fenris did look away then, busying himself with his own armor, finally pulling off the gauntlets and dropping them next to the bed. His eyes fell on Cullen’s form, now quiet and still on the floor.

He pulled the ragged blankets close and turned over to try and sleep.

*

Fenris awoke with a gasp. His body was on fire, and Danarius stood over him, cruel smile curling on his lips. “Come, little wolf,” he said. “I will overlook your disobedience if you will come without a fight.”

“No,” Fenris said. But he could feel his resistance weakening. He could no longer remember why he was fighting. Everything hurt, and he knew, somehow, that Danarius would be able to stop the pain. He would be safe, if only he listened.

“You were not meant for freedom, Fenris,” Danarius said. “Your place is with me.”

Danarius stepped forward, looming over him. His eyes were a bright and eerie green. He held out his hand.

“No,” Fenris repeated, stronger this time. “I will not.”

Danarius shook his head, giving Fenris a pitying look. “Then I’m afraid I will have to do this the hard way.” The markings flared brighter, and the pain with them. Fenris gritted his teeth, trying to fight, and yet he did not have the strength. What use was fighting anyway? Danarius would always find him.

As if he could hear Fenris’s thoughts, Danarius smiled. Fenris lowered his head in resignation of a fight already lost. But something was wrong. He felt something else, not Danarius’s magic, but a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, someone shouting—

“Fenris, wake up! You’re having a nightmare, it’s not real,” a voice pleaded. How could it not be real? Danarius had been his world for as long as he could remember. How could he wake up from that?

“Maker, please, wake up.” The voice was pleading now, and almost familiar. He strained to remember where he knew it, but it was faded along with the rest of his past.

“You aren’t alone anymore.”

Fenris opened his eyes.

A man was standing over him, both hands pressed against Fenris’s shoulders. He reacted instinctively, shoving the man away and tackling him to the floor before he’d even realized he’d moved. He knelt over him, one hand raised, glowing with white light.

“Fenris,” he said. Fenris met his eyes, warm and brown and safe. Cullen. It was only Cullen. He lowered his hand, letting it fall to his side.

“I apologize,” he said. “The demon disturbed me more than I had realized.”

Cullen lifted his hand, letting it hover inches from Fenris’s face. “It’s fine. I understand. I have them as well.”

Nightmares, he meant. He’d spoken of it to Fenris before, though briefly, when they’d shared a cramped tent at a campsite many months behind them. He’d woken with a shout, and though Fenris had not asked, he had explained anyway, of the demons of the Circle Tower in Ferelden. Perhaps he, too, had not been sleeping well tonight. The wind howled outside, and Fenris realized he had not moved from his place over Cullen, and Cullen had not let his hand drop. He knew that Cullen would let it lie, would return to his own dark dreams, and they could go on as they had, friends and comrades.

And yet Fenris found that he did not wish to be alone.

He leaned down and crushed their mouths together, a kiss as fierce as Cullen had named him earlier in the night. Despite Cullen’s stifled gasp, he responded quickly, hand cupping the back of his head. He ignored the twinges of phantom pain, from the earlier battle, or from his nightmare, he did not know or care. His fall felt inevitable, a progression in a dance that had being going on longer than just one night. Cullen broke the kiss, swallowed, looked like he was going to speak. Fenris kissed him again. He did not want to speak. Whatever words Cullen had summoned were drowned out under the press of Fenris’s lips, the warm line where their bodies met.

Beneath him, he could feel Cullen responding, a warm pressure against his thigh, and his felt own response in turn. He shifted, grinding down, and Cullen gasped.

“Fenris.” A breathless whisper against his cheek. He wondered if perhaps they should disrobe, and yet he didn’t want to stop. He needed this, and Cullen was clearly willing, if the hand stroking down Fenris’s back were anything to go by. He repeated his motion, savoring the heat, the tension building between them.

“Fenris,” Cullen said again, clearer this time. Before Fenris realized what had happened, Cullen dragged him to his feet. He wondered, dazedly, if Cullen would be able to lift him, if it would be horrible if he did. But Cullen only guided him towards the bed, kissing him almost reverentially. Fenris’s fingers wound themselves in the cotton of Cullen’s shirt, dragging him down onto the bed. His kisses were more heated now, matching Fenris’s own intensity. Cullen hovered over him, careful of his own greater size. Fenris yanked him down hard by the collar, savoring the feeling of Cullen pressing him down. It was real, warm, alive.

“I will not break,” he said.

Cullen smiled, fingers stroking his cheek. “I know.” Their lips met again, something between Fenris’s frantic intensity and Cullen’s earlier gentleness. His movements were more deliberate now, and Fenris let himself cling to him, let Cullen take control. Finally, it all became too much. His fingers dug into Cullen’s shoulders as he came. Cullen kissed him again, and Fenris distantly noticed the wind had stopped. He ran his through Cullen’s tight curls, and felt the harsh rush of breath as he followed Fenris, tension draining from his body.

After a moment, he rolled off Fenris, though the size of the bed meant he could not move far, his body still half covering Fenris’s own. As if the storm had been a parallel to his own turmoil, he felt his mind quiet with the wind. Beside him, he felt Cullen shift as if to move away, back to his crude pallet on the floor. Fenris’s fingers curled around his arm, holding him in place.

“I do not wish to be alone.” The words came out slowly, hesitantly, and yet the cost was not as high as it would have once been. Cullen met his eyes, and the seconds dragged on before he finally settled down next to Fenris, arm settling over him, holding him close.

“It is done,” Cullen said, “we march as one.”

Fenris blinked in surprise. “You read it.” The Canticle of Shartan. Fenris had mentioned once that he was fond of it, in passing, and Cullen had expressed interest, yet had never mentioned it since.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a legendary blade to gift to you.” Cullen was smiling, and Fenris found he could not help but smile back.

“This is enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Canticle of Shartan.


End file.
